


Tethers

by LunaLucrea



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Blood and Violence, Demon Summoning, Everyone has their issues after the apocalypse, Gore, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Kidnapping, Lack of Communication, Language, Paranoia, Post-Canon, Post-Weirdmageddon, Sea Grunkles, Self-Doubt, The kids are a little older, There are scarrier things than Bill, Will continue to tag as necessary, accidental drugging?, and the themes are a little more mature as well, beings from the multiverse, mentions of torture, no real romance, pretty much everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-11-28 09:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11414586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaLucrea/pseuds/LunaLucrea
Summary: Dipper's just being paranoid. He knows he must just be seeing things... Nothing strange happens in Piedmont, everyone knows that, and there's no reason to worry his friends and family over it.  He knows he's being dumb, and lashing out is just making things worse.There's certainly not anyone following him around... and there's definitly not a weird, nefarious cult kiddnapping people who've had contact with "demons".Right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first post to AO3, and my first GF fanfiction. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Chapter one  
In which Mabel poisons her brother.

* * *

 

 

Stan started at the sudden unexpected ringing, hands fumbling the deck of cards he'd been shuffling in preparation for his game of solitaire. His eyes quickly darted to the always accurate clock Ford had built—Seriously, it automatically adjusted itself to whatever time zone they were in via satellite or whatever—and did some quick math. If it was one p.m. on a Sunday in their current location...

He frowned.

He could count the number of people who knew how to contact them aboard the Stan O' War II on one, normal, five fingered hand, and every single one of those people should definitely still be asleep.

The ringing persisted, and he hastily rolled his chair across the cramped little kitchen nook to grab the custom McGucket all in one laptop thingamagig, and pressed the little 'talk' key.

The screen sprung to life, lagged a bit, then finally settled on his mystery caller.

He cleared his throat in an effort to school his features, resisting the tug of an affectionate smile that wanted to make it's way across his lips. Instead, he settled for a semi-judgemental scowl, “What? Don't you sleep?”

“Shhhh!” Mabel brought one finger up to her lips, head whipping around nervously to look at something behind her. She seemed satisfied, “Ok, whew, I did shut it.”

“Mabel?”

“Sorry, Grunkle Stan.” Her normal, cheery exuberance was missing, voice kept at a breathy whisper, “Just checking the door.”

Stanley Pines was an extremely observant man—it was a necessary skill if you wanted to survive as long has he did, the way he did—and it only took a second or two for the alarm bells in his head to start blaring. His great niece had faint, weary bags under her eyes, and she was fidgeting with her fingers uneasily. Her bedroom was dark, save from a small string of pastel pink and yellow flower shaped lights that hung across her headboard, that he assumed she used as an impromptu night light of sorts. She had her blanket draped across her shoulders, and her modified tablet—Once again courtesy of McGucket—was likely propped up against her drawn up knees. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, sparing another glance in the direction of her door.

Something was wrong... he just needed to figure out _how_ wrong. Mabel tended to over react about a lot of things, but she had never called so early in the morning before. He softened his gaze and did his best to speak softly, “Everything alright, pumpkin?”

She jerked her head back to face him, almost like she'd forgotten he was there, “Hey Grunkle Stan. Er, Is Grunkle Ford there with you?”

Stan smirked, raising a brow as he leaned to balance the chair on it's back two legs, wheels be damned, “What am I, chopped liver?”

“What?  Oh, no! No, Grunkle Stan! I didn't mean... I was kinda hoping to talk to both of you.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose between two fingers, eyes blinking tiredly in a way that Stan didn't care for.  Normally she'd bat away his teasing without missing a beat, but she actually looked like she might have taken it seriously this time. It was entirely too not-Mabel-like, “It just took sooooo long for him to fall asleep, even though I might have, sort of, mixed some NightQuilt in his energy drink... but he didn't seem to notice, so I don't think it worked, and now that I think about it, I hope that won't make him sick—oh man, I shouldn't have done that, right? Didn't I learn something like that in school? Oh no, oh no... I mean, what if I poisoned him? You aren't supposed to mix sleep medicines with things like that! Why the heck did I do that!? Oh man... I totally poisoned him, didn't I? What if-”

“Whoa, Whoa!” Stan's eyes bugged slightly as he jerked forward, resting one arm on the old, wooden table as the chair's front legs landed with a loud thud. He used his other hand to straighten the screen further, “Slow down, kid. One thing at a time, alright? Who'd ya poison now?”

“Dipper!” Mabel whined, dragging her hands down her face, “I just wanted... He needed to go to sleep, and he-”

“Ok, hey, stop.” Stan interrupted, one hand still gripping the edge of the screen perhaps a bit tighter than what was necessary. He licked his lips and continued, “First thing's first: how much of that sleep crap did you put in his drink?”

Mabel brought one hand up and tilted it side to side, “Like, a table spoon... ish? Maybe a little more. I was in a hurry, and the can was almost full!”

“Ok... ok.” Stan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He dragged his hand down the edge of the screen, then back up again almost subconsciously, “Mabel, you listen to me right now, and listen good: If I _ever_ hear about you mixing something in _anyone's_ drink again, you will be in some seriously deep shit, do you hear me?”

Mabel's eyes widened to almost comical proportions—not that she'd never heard that type of language from him before. Her Grunkle tried to censer himself whenever he thought she and Dipper were listening, but he'd gotten more lax as they got older and he sometimes slipped up.

Unintentionally of course.   The way the kids groaned and snickered when he said something particularly crude had _nothing_ to do with it!  And Ford's exasperated expression and shake of the head certainly didn't egg him on.  He was just old, and crotchety... and crotchety old men used bad language from time to time.  It was like an unspoken law of some sorts. 

Well, that was his story, and he was sticking to it anyway.

No... Stan could tell it was the tone, and the fact that it was directed at _her_ that had her stunned. The sad, defeated look she was giving him tore at his heartstrings like she wouldn't believe, but he had a very important point to make.

“I'm not joking, Mabel. I want you to tell me you understand.” His voice was slowly returning to it's usual boisterous volume, and she winced guiltily.

“I...“

There was a sudden slam, followed by the quick shuffle of feet. Ford appeared in the doorway opposite the table his brother was seated at with two large, paper supply bags under his arms, “Sorry Stanley, I couldn't hear you from outside. What do I need to understand now?”

“What? No, not you.” Stan grumbled a reply, waving one hand dismissively without shifting his eyes from the screen in front of him.

“Hmm?” The elder twin's eyes found their way to the back of the laptop and he cocked his head curiously before something seemed to click in his brain, “Wait, are you talking to the kids? What time is it? I didn't think I was gone that long... I mean, I may have gotten a bit distracted by the most peculiar-”

“Too early for this crap,” Stan groaned, cutting in before his brother could go off on a tangent and derail the entire conversation, “Can it, Poindexter.”

Ford huffed indignantly, but swallowed any argument he may have had upon seeing Stan's expression and posture. He slowly set the bags down on the chair closest to him, “What's wrong?”

“Mabel?” Stan pressed, drumming his fingers against the wood in an even, steady pattern.

“I... I'm so sorry Grunkle Stan! I just... I didn't know what to do, and kinda just did it without thinking-”

“Not what I want to hear.”

Ford's eyes widened in shock. He had  _rarely_ heard Stan take that tone with the kids... especially Mabel. He crossed his arms and stayed quiet, attention completely enraptured by the scene playing out in front of him.

“I understand.”

“I mean it, Mabel. No excuses.”

A sniffle echoed through the small compartment, “I know. I'm sorry. I won't do it again.”

Stan seemed to deflate all at once, and he slumped in his chair. He brought one hand up to run through his hair, “Alright. Good.” He paused, considering his words for a moment, “Listen, what you did can be pretty dangerous, kiddo. That NightQuilt junk actually has some surprisingly potent stuff in it.”

Mable was fighting back tears now, “I didn't...”

Stan shook his head, “It's meant to knock you out, so when you mix it with all that caffeine and sugar and all that other nasty stuff in those energy drinks, it messes with ya. ”

Ford's face shifted from surprised to concerned, his brain eager to piece together all the context clues he'd gotten since walking in half way through the conversation, but he managed to remain quiet. He did, however, rest one palm on the table and lean forward, so that he could hear the other side of the conversation better.

“Back in my grifter days I...” Stan stopped himself cold, realizing the sudden, bubbling emergence of a long forgotten memory was dangerously close to distracting him.   Not to mention that it was probably safe to say it was going to be a memory that was inappropriate to share with his niece. The kids might not have been completely naive about the more unsavory parts of his past, but that didn't mean they needed to hear the grisly details. “Err... never mind. It's just dangerous to mess around with stuff like that, ok?”

“So I _did_ poison Dipper!?” Mabel cried, face screwing itself into a state of panic, “Oh my gosh! Grunkle Stan, what do I do?”

“Wait, what!?” Ford questioned, her panicked declaration finally getting the better of his patience.  He clumsily darted around to stand behind Stan so that he could see Mabel's face, “You poisoned your brother?”

“Everyone just calm down!” Stan mollified, elbowing his brother slightly to shut him up, “You didn't poison him.  You didn't really put enough in there to do any real harm, kiddo. He might get a stomach ache, maybe be a bit dehydrated if all he's been drinking are those damn energy drinks... But probably not. He's asleep now, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok. Good. Keep an eye on him. He should be fine, but do it just in case. I'd tell you to fess up to your parents, but, eh... that'd be all pot calling the kettle black, considering.”

Ford frowned, "Stanley...”

“I'm serious about what I said earlier though.” Stan continued, ignoring Ford's interjection, "What you did was not ok."

“I know. I messed up big time.” Mabel replied, rubbing her face in an attempt to quell the blotchiness formed from resisting the tears, “I promise, never again.”

Stan covered his face with one, calloused hand and let out a long, slow breath, “Sheesh, kid. You sure know how to give an old man a heart attack...”

“Sorry Grunkle Stan.”

“Yeah, well, anywho... Ford's here now. You said you wanted to talk to us both, didn't ya? Now you wanna tell us what you're doing calling us at such a god forsaken hour in the morning?”

“It's not morning where you are!” Mabel pointed out, a bit of her usual pep finally bleeding back into her voice.

“Cute.” Her Grunkle replied, rolling his eyes. He pulled his glasses off and used his shirt to clean them, squinting one eye at the screen to show he wasn't amused, “Stop deflecting and fess up already. What's so important you had to _drug_ your brother, and call us at... what is there? Four a.m.?”

Mabel looked sheepish, sparing a small wave toward her other great uncle, who returned it in kind, “Hi Grunkle Ford.” She paused to readjust her screen when Waddles struggled up and onto the bed, the edge of his snout blocking her view, “I had to wait for Dipper to fall asleep... I didn't want him to know I was calling you.”

“I think we gathered that much.” Stan snorted, holding his glasses out in front of him as he inspected them for smudges, before returning them to his face.

“That doesn't explain _why_ you didn't want him to know,Mabel, or why you would evidently go through such extreme measures to talk to us in private.” Ford prompted, propping himself up with one hand on his brother's shoulder so he could lean a little closer to the screen, "What happened?"

The teenager let out a small, somewhat distressed noise before abruptly blurting out, “Dipper got into a fight!”

Whatever it was the two old men were expecting her to say, it wasn't that. Both of them lurched forward a bit, and it wasn't due in any way to the gentle, constant rocking of their boat. Their voices squawked in unison, “What?!”

“And he hasn't been sleeping, like, at all, and mom and dad are really freaking out and getting on him and talking about sending him to a behavioral therapist, but what is he supposed to tell a therapist? It's not like he can be honest with them!  Like ' _oh, hey now, I might be acting a little messed up or some junk because a few years ago I lived through the apocalypse, caused by a stupid nacho demon guy that turned everyone to stone and made a giant, floating pyramid in the sky!“_

The way she mimicked her brother's voice might have been funny in any other situation, but as it stood, the elder set of twins were still processing her first statement and were unable to keep up with the torrential downpour of information spewing from her mouth, “And I can tell something else is wrong, but he won't talk to me! He's just like ' _I'm fine, Mabel. Leave me alone, Mabel. Don't worry about it, Mabel. I'm just being dumb, Mabel...”_

She still hadn't bothered breathe, and the attempt to keep whispering was beginning to strain her voice under the punishment, “I think he tried once—to talk to me, I mean—but then dad walked in and ruined it and now he's being all weird and paranoid!  Like he's barely leaving his room—well, he's leaving his room even less than before, I guess—and he used to want to let me read all his dumb new notes and junk, but now...”

Both Stan and Ford were still reeling, mouths gaping uselessly like fishes out of water. Neither of them could bring themselves to even glance at one another as their great niece began another random tirade.

It was Stan who recovered first, and he waved his hands frantically to try and catch her attention, “Mabel. MABEL!” Her mouth audibly snapped shut, and he stole his chance to speak while she was distracted, “Wow. Ok, I...”

Ford cleared his throat in annoyance, and Stan rectified, “Er, _we_ , can't do anything about all of that at once, so let's back up. You said Dipper— _our Dipper—_ got into a fight? Like, at school or something?”

She took a moment to compose herself before giving a curt nod, “With Tommy Carter. Who's always been a big, stupid... ugh! Asshat!”

“ _Language_ , young lady...” Ford scolded halfheartedly, finally finding his own voice, “Is your brother alright?”

“He busted up a couple fingers, and his face is kinda swollen and purple in some places. His lip got split open, but other than all that, he's ok.”

“Hmm... Probably had his thumb in his fist. Thought he knew better than that.” Stan mused offhandedly, which earned him a raised eyebrow, and a disapproving grunt from his brother, “What? If he's gonna fight, we might as well teach him to do it right. Gotta be able to defend himself is some teenage punk is wailin' on him.”

“Actually, I think he hurt his fingers when he punched the locker afterwards.” Mabel corrected, matter-of-factly, “And... er... Dipper started the fight.”

Yet again, both of the elder Pines twins balked, though this time they managed to share a quick, deeply troubled look between themselves before almost identically bumping their glasses up to rub their eyes before turning back to their great niece.  Her quiet, stoic expression was so out of character that it only served to set them on edge even further.

“ _Dipper_ started the fight.” Ford repeated quietly, as if he might have somehow misunderstood.

Stan sighed, “And what did your parents say?”

“Oh man, Grunkle Stan, they were _super_ pissed.” Mabel replied, absentmindedly scratching behind her beloved pig's ear, “He's grounded right now... they haven't said for how long. I think it's gonna be a while.”

Despite his best efforts, Stan couldn't help the way his face contorted in disappointment, “Oh, uh... and what about Christmas?”

Mabel's eyes widened as she shook her head so quickly that it almost made her great uncles dizzy, and both of them could have sworn the commotion had somehow stirred up a cloud of glitter from _somewhere_ , “Oh, no no no, don't worry about that, you silly old man.” She soothed, “They aren't going to stop us from coming up to the Shack for the break. I was all ready to put on my best pouting face, but I didn't even need to.  Dad can't get out of that work trip, and mom made a non-refundable deposit on her flight and hotel, so that she could go with him. You aren't getting rid of us that easy!”

“Eh...” Stan scoffed, and turned his nose up in an attempt to look unimpressed. He crossed his arms and mumbled, “That's just great. S'all we need, you kids eating us out of house and home.  Just when I thought I'd get out of babysitting you little urchins...”

They way Mabel's eyes twinkled, and Ford's hand squeezed his shoulder suggested they weren't buying his act. He supposed that was ok.

“Mabel,” Ford coughed, drawing her attention in his direction, “Did Dipper say _why_ he started the fight?”

Her eyes fell, “No... he wouldn't tell anyone.” She shrugged, “I wasn't there—we have different schedules for most of the day this semester, and I was just getting out of gym class when it happened. My friend Sam was pretty close by, and said one minute everything was normal, the next, BAM! Dipper just freaked the heck out in the hallway and started throwing punches.”

“There has to be a reasonable explanation,” Ford's expression was hard to read, but Stan could recognize that he was shaken deep down, “That doesn't sound like him at all.”

“That dumb kid's getting into all sorts of trouble lately.” Stan murmured, cracking his knuckles as a way to keep his hands busy and ground himself, “First he's failin' that class... getting summer school and all that...”

Ford spared a glance down to his brother as his voice trailed off.  Stan's brows were scrunched tightly, and it was obvious that he was still a more than a little upset about that particular situation;  Dipper had failed one of his science classes, which _still_ baffled both of them.  His great nephew was incredibly smart and should have been able to pass that class in his sleep—and even though he was perfectly capable of making up the work on his own time, his parents had grounded him, and placed him in a summer school program as some sort of _lesson._

which meant no visitors, and no trip to the Mystery Shack.

Try as he might, Stan wasn't convincing anyone when he said it didn't matter. The kids meant the world to him, and not being able to see them for over a year had disappointed him immensely.

Not to mention Ford _also_ missed the kids a great deal. He'd learned so much, and been so humbled by them.   He wasn't always the best at showing it, but he loved them, and felt like they deserved the world for everything they had done and survived.  He wanted to try and give it to them every, single day.

Not spending the summer with them in Gravity Falls was certainly a great blow he hadn't taken lightly. He'd doubled down on his research and experiments in an attempt to keep extra busy, so that he wouldn't think about all the missed time with them he'd never be able to get back.

But Stan...

Stan would give everything he had for them— _had_ given everything he had for them.

That Knucklehead would never admit it himself, but his love for them was brutally raw, and deeply ingrained in his very being. Ford still believed that the neither of the younger twins knew just how important they were to the man in question.

But Ford _did_ know. Mabel and Dipper had, without any semblance of a doubt, saved their beloved Grunkle Stan in more ways than one.

(And Ford would always be eternally grateful.)

So yes, the summer school incident had been a punch to the gut so to speak, and according to Mabel it had taken some seriously nefarious plotting and begging on her end to convince their parents to allow them come up for the following Christmas holiday. Apparently, it was going to be an extra long one—the school was doing some much needed remodeling after a minor quake in the area, and they were combining the 'Christmas' and 'Winter' breaks into one, and then some. They were tacking the extra days on at the end of the year to make up for it.

That was only a few weeks away now—just enough time for he and his brother to get back to Oregon themselves—and Ford was silently thankful that Dipper's newest _incident_  hadn't jeopardized their plans.

He really did need to sit the boy down and figure out just what was going on. Had Weirdmageddon really left such a deep scar? Was there some other underlying psychological factor at play? If that was the case, it was completely understandable, of course. After all, none of them had escaped Bill's brief reign of terror unscathed.

What _wasn't_ understandable, however, was why all of this was coming to a head _now._ It really was only in the last year or so that Dipper had spiraled...

“Hellooooo... earth to Grunkle Ford?” Mabel's voice broke his train of thought suddenly, and when he shifted his gaze back the slightly amused expressions on both her, and Stanley's faces suggested they'd been trying to get his attention for some time now.

“Hmm? Sorry, sweetheart,” Ford could feel his face growing slightly flustered, “Over-thinking things, I suppose.”

Her gentle, genuine smile warmed his heart, “That's ok. It's a common side effect of being such a big, sappy, nerd.”

Stan cackled, and Ford couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips, “Is that your professional diagnosis?”

“Mmmhmm. Trust me, I'm an expe-” A sharp, sudden yawn overtook her, “Aaahmm... Sorry. Expert. That's me.”

“You need to get some sleep, kiddo.” Stan interjected, “I know your mom gets up at the crack of dawn, and if she catches you still awake and talking to us, there's gonna be hell to pay. I _do not_ wanna deal with that headache.”

The smile on her face became more strained, and her eyes shifted to look down at the pig that had clambered it's way into her lap, “I... I'll be ok. I've got a stash of Mabel juice that'll get me through the day.”

The elder twins spoke at the same time,“Ugh, you're still drinking that crap?” and “That's really not healthy, Mabel.”

“I don't want to hang up.”

“Mabel...” Stan sighed, “I know you're worried about your brother, and yeah, maybe for good reason, but you gotta take care of yourself too.”

She snorted, and gave her uncle a side eyed glance that suggested she wanted to call out his hypocrisy, but wisely decided against it, “I just don't know what to do. He's acting so... ugh. Like, he's scared of something, and I don't know what it is. I can't talk to mom and dad about it... you know?”

“We'll try and figure it out together, ok?” Ford suggested, “But Stan is right. You won't be in any condition to help your brother if you're dead on your feet.”

“Yeah, ok...”

Stan cocked his head, suspicious of her tone, and narrowed her eyes, “Is there something else you wanted to tell us?”

“No... not really. I'm just... tired.” She mumbled, once again fidgeting with her fingers uncertainly, “Thanks for listening.”

Stan just settled further in his chair and gave her a grunt, while Ford replied, “Thank you for telling us.”

“Ok... well, Goodnight!” She mustered up another, bright smile, and brought her hands up in the shape of a heart in front of the camera, “Don't do anything I wouldn't do, and you better not be late getting back to Gravity Falls! Take care of Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Ford.”

“Hey, wait a mi-”

“No worries.” Ford squeezed his brother's shoulder, and grinned smugly, “He may be a handful, but I think I have it under control.”

“I think you need your head checked Sixer, because I know my memory ain't great and all, but I'm pretty sure you were the one tha-”

“Goodnight, Mabel.” Ford ignored his brother's objections, cheerfully continuing “Call again soon.  At a more reasonable hour, preferably.”

“I will. Make sure you take care of yourself too! Love you both!”

And with that, the screen went dark.

The brothers sat in silence for several moments, eyes still focused on the space their niece's face had just vacated. Neither of them knew what to say, and both were busy gathering their own thoughts. Stan was leaning forward now, hand once again slowly running up and down along the side of the screen, while Ford's cheerful smile had vanished, leaving behind a deep seated discord.

Eventually Stan sighed, and closed the laptop with a sharp click, “There _was_ something else she wanted to tell us you know.”

“Hmm.” Ford agreed, knowing that he tended to misread these types of situations.  He was glad he hadn't this time, “That's what I thought as well.”

“God. What the hell, Sixer?” Stan combed his fingers through his hair as he turned his gaze up to meet his brother's, "I mean, there's gotta be something more to this than your typical teenage hormones and junk, right?”

“I would like to think so.” Ford muttered, “I know I wasn't the most conventional teenager myself, but puberty alone seems an insufficient excuse for Dipper's recent behavior. There's a number of experiments I could- ”

“Hold up. You can't just go poking and prodding, poindexter. You'll push him away so fast you won't know what hit ya.” He paused, heaving himself up from his chair. Several loud pops echoed through the room as he stretched, purposely cracking his joints in ways he knew made his brother cringe, “Uchg... getting way too old to be dealing with a couple of brats.”

“We aren't that old yet, Stanley.” Ford rolled his eyes as at his brother's antics, wincing as a particularly loud pop sounded from Stanley's spine, "Besides-"

“Yeah, tell that to my knees.”

“I've told you several times I could probably concoct a-”

“Nope. I don't need any of your multi-dimensional science mumbo jumbo.”

“Will you stop interrupting-”

“And neither does Dipper, unless he specifically asks you for it.” Stan pressed, drawing himself up to look his brother in the eye, “Whatever this is, he needs to be able to talk to someone who isn't going to interrogate him like he's some kinda criminal.  I'm sure he's getting enough of that at home. Same reason why I didn't let you get in his face right away about failin' that class. It'd just make him more skittish. If Mabel's right, then it doesn't sound like his parents are helping much either... not that I think they actually could, to tell the truth. If that bullshit from three years ago really did mess something up in that overactive brain of his...”

Ford paused, “They'd never believe him.”

“Right.  It was hard enough to get them to believe the whole ' _Hey look, I'm actually Stanley Pines, and not dead.  Oh, and Stanford's back too._ '”

"Well, admittedly, we didn't actually tell them the truth, either."

"Hey, our story was solid enough.  Telling them the truth would get us _both_ institutionalized, and take it from someone with experience, you don't want that."

"You've been institutionalized?"  Distress practically dripped from Ford's tone, "Wh-"

"And so would Dipper, if he told them all the crazy shit that happened that summer."

Ford narrowed his eyes, adding to the mental checklist of things that he and his brother would definitely need to talk about at some point.  Still, he relented, and returned to the problem at hand.

“Yes.  Well.  I could understand his frustration, and even understand if he lashed out occasionally... but _starting_ a fight _?_ Defending himself would be one thing...” Ford crossed his arms, and leaned his head back to rest against the wall. His voice grew quiet as an embarrassed fluster dusted his cheeks, “She said he was frightened.  Snappish, I'd presume.  Deep paranoia after a traumatic series of events wouldn't be unheard of, of course, he wouldn't be the first."  He cleared his throat nervously, "but it's all rather sudden, isn't it?

“Yeah. Something about this ain't right no matter how you look at it.” There was a lull in the conversation, and Ford was grateful that Stan chose not to poke at the obvious comparison being made. Instead, he suggested, “Somethin's diggin' at him.  Hard.  Sounds to me like his head's stuck in fight or flight mode or somethin'.”

“That's actually a plausible theory.” Ford considered, “A chemical imbalance could lead to something along those lines, and depression could lead to unfamiliar behaviors... though In this case I think it seems like something more than that."

“You're underestimating what plain old guilt and adrenaline can make you do.”

Ford frowned. He may not be the most observant when it came to emotions or social cues, but even he had heard the self depreciating layer between his brother's words, “Stanley...”

“Anyway.” Stan groaned, “Tell me you got us a room in town for tonight? As much as I love the damn boat..."

“The cots do leave something to be desired,” Ford nodded, “But yes, I did. Keep in mind we have to head out first thing, if we're gonna keep our promise to Mabel about not being late, so I don't think visiting the pub is in our best interest.”

“I didn't promise nothin'.”

“You didn't promise _anything_ ,” Ford corrected nonchalantly as the two gathered the few valuables they had before heading up to the deck.

Stan smacked his brothers shoulder to get him moving, “Shut up, Nerd.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick look at Mabel and Dipper's thoughts.

* * *

Chapter Two  
In which Mabel and Dipper contemplate the meaning of  _home._

 

* * *

 

Mabel leaned against the door in front of her, forehead pressed heavily against the wood as she gave two loud knocks, “Dipperrrrrrr! Come onnnnnnnnn! Hurry up. We've got people to see, and places to be, bro-bro!”

She knew he probably couldn't hear her over the water from the shower and loud hum of BABBA playing from his phone. For some reason, their upstairs bathroom was like some kind of insanely effective echo chamber, and almost no sound from the outside world could penetrate the barrier that was the sturdy, wooden door.

In fact, when they were kids they used to drive their parents crazy during bath time with their impromptu concerts. She would actually argue that they had perfected their harmonies thanks to that small, tiled space. Her parents... well, they _might_ say otherwise. She thinks the words 'ear splitting' and 'screeching' had been muttered at least once.

Well, whatever. He obviously couldn't hear her now, which was fine, even if she refused to admit it. The bus up to Gravity Falls wasn't leaving for another hour, and was always late anyway. She was just anxious to get a move on, and admittedly, probably, just a tad too hyped up on Mabel juice to consider being patient.

With a loud, dejected sigh she turned, then slid down the door and sat with her knees up and arms draped. She couldn't do anything but wait at this point; her craft supplies had all been carefully selected, she'd prepped three separate scrapbooks to fill over the holidays, and all her clothes were packed. Waddles was perusing about downstairs—somehow her Grunkles and parents had managed to convince the bus company to let him come again, though it probably helped that they always seemed to have the same driver.

This was their first winter trip up to the Shack, so of course she had to be properly attired. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail that sat high on her head, and was tied with a shimmering white ribbon. Her nails had been painted an icy blue, with silver sparkles along the tips, and she'd chosen the cutest little dangly snowflake earrings.

The only thing that didn't fit the theme was her sweater. She only ever wore _this_ particular sweater on her arrival and departure trips to and from Gravity falls.

Dipper even said it seemed like a compulsion of some kind, and eh, maybe it was... but she didn't care. He had his habits too. This was her thing.

She'd had to remake the sweater twice now over the years, as they'd both hit their growth spurts not long after returning from that first, wonderful, terrifying, impossible summer. Absolutely no substitute sweater would do. There was a certain look, a certain _feel_ that she absolutely needed, and rules she had to follow when remaking.

 _Always_ made from cheap, slightly itchy, glaringly bright magenta wool from the craft store down town. Flecks of glitter dusted the gentle, loose weaving... but not in a way that was intentional. No. The glitter was a byproduct. It had to be random; gained from accidental brushings against half finished art projects, or from haphazardly laying the spool on her impossible to de-sparkle desk. The reflective flecks had to catch the light arbitrarily... they had to catch people off guard in such a way that they'd feel compelled to take a second look, ending up with a hazy smirk or smile once they realized what they saw.

 _Always_ between two or three sizes too big. It just wouldn't fit right any other way. Her fingers barely poking out of the cuff of the sleeves, the fabric bunching in soft, comforting waves of folds whenever she sat or bent.

 _Always_ defiant.

It bore her symbol unapologetically.

Bill had poked and prodded. He'd sneered and threatened. He'd sarcastically referred to them by their positions on the Zodiac wheel thingy in an attempt to pervert the hope those symbols were meant to represent.

But he had failed. He _lost_. She was the goddamned Shooting Star—Mabel was sure her Grunkle Ford would tsk about the language, and that mental image only served to make her giggle—and despite all of the stupid nacho's efforts, despite all the pain and suffering and how close he may have come... he had never managed to snuff out that hope.

So she wore the sweater like a badge of honor, the symbol as a spit in that dumb triangle's face. She wore it to say, _'Look at how we beat you! Look at how royally you messed up. Look at how nothing you did mattered in the end!_ '

_'Look at how... Look at how you tried to break everyone apart... Look at how you tried to rip out our hope, but ended up making it shine brighter than ever! Look at how... Look at how Grunkle Stan...'_

And usually this is about when the tears would prickle in her eyes, because sometimes she couldn't help thinking about all the bad things that had happened. Sometimes, the worst memories would jump suddenly from the depths of her brain and remind her just how close they'd come—she'd come—to being slaughtered. She could still hear his high pitched, nerve-wracking voice, ' _Eenie-Meenie-Minie-YOU!'_

Sometimes her brain would remind her that Grunkle Stan _still_ had memory lapses from time to time. Sometimes his eyes would go slightly glassy, and he'd get sad, or scared, or forget where he was. There were times when he'd wake up with a shout, because some dark thing from his past came up in the form of a twisted, exaggerated nightmare... and then his head would hurt and he'd be a bit slow and shaky for the rest of the day. She and Dipper would notice, even though he tried really, really hard to hide it from them, ever the showman that he was.

 _Always_ heavy. The collar had to be thick, but wide and stretchy, just in case a trip to sweater-town was needed. _Always_ softly curling against her neck, grounding her, adding heft when things went sunny-side-up.

She'd worn that sweater on her very first day in Gravity Falls. She'd worn that sweater the first time she'd ever met her beloved Grunkle Stan. And she'd worn that sweater on the last day of summer, when she and Dipper boarded the bus and returned to Piedmont.

So she had decided to wear that sweater on every return trip she ever took. Every first day in Gravity Falls. Every single time she greeted the grinning, happy, _alive_ faces of her two silly, grumpy Great Uncles.

Because that sweater was a symbol. Her symbol. It represented the Shooting Star.

But that wasn't all.

It also represented the lush, hidden valley housing a small, quaint town. It represented all the strange, lovable people that lived their lives in that town, dealing with the extraordinary on a day to day basis.

It represented the gnomes, pixies and manotaurs. It represented the Hand Witch, and the Multi-Bear, and even dumb old Celestabellabethabelle.

It represented the musty, damp smell of an old, creaky attic. It represented the occasional flutter of that one, stubborn spotted owl that was mundane in every single way, that sometimes lived in the rafters above them as they slept.

It represented the breeze as it whispered through massive old growth trees, and the cold, glistening streams weaving through the woods. It represented the giant, rushing waterfall, and the old abandoned mines full of living, breathing dinosaurs.

It represented her and her brother, kicking back on the roof of the Shack with a couple of ice cold Pitt Cola's, where he would point out all the different nerdy constellations, so clearly visible due to the lack of light and pollution.

It represented the warmth in her heart when she overheard her Grunkles quietly lounging on the weathered, smelly porch couch somewhere below them, doing the exact same thing.

It represented everything _he_ had tried, and failed to take away.

It represented _home._

Because Piedmont might be where she lived for now, but come on, there was no way she wasn't moving up to Gravity Falls the first chance she got.

The door suddenly swung open behind her, and without the support she rolled back, finding herself lying face up on a slightly damp floor, “Whoa!”

“Mabel?” Dipper's startled expression came into view, and she quickly wiped any unshed tears away in an attempt to keep him from noticing. “What are... hey, are you ok?”

No such luck apparently.

She blinked up at him for a moment while she collected herself. Steam was billowing out from behind him and into the hallway, and he had a thick, dark blue towel wrapped around his waist. His skin was slightly pinkish from how hot he ran the shower, (too hot, probably) and his towel dried hair stuck out in various directions, leaving his birthmark uncovered in a way that was obviously unintentional.

His face was still featuring a mix of concern and amusement, though there was a growing anxiousness burning just below the surface that he was trying and failing to reign in. His eyebrow arched up inquisitively when she didn't answer or bounce back to her feet right away, “Mabel, I know from experience that tile isn't very comfortable.”

She couldn't help the small, sharp snort that escaped her. The sound seemed to ease his nerves a bit, and after another quick scan his eyes slowly settled on her sweater. A soft, knowing expression overtook his features, and his amused smirk melted into a more somber smile. She briefly wondered if it might have hurt a bit—his bottom lip was still healing after all—but if it did, he didn't let it show. Instead, he held out his uninjured hand, “You ready to go?”

And the way he looked at her—all kindness and caring and appreciation—it gave her hope.

Because it meant that whatever weird crap was going on with him, whatever had him acting so cray-cray lately... it hadn't completely broken their relationship. Sure, he didn't want to really talk to her about his problems—or maybe he did, but just wouldn't for whatever reason—but he still cared.

He might have even darker bags that usual under his eyes, and he might jump at his own shadow like, all the time now, but he still pushed all that aside when he noticed that she was upset about something. He still smiled, and spoke softly, with love and warmth and awkward feeling.

And that was just so... _Dipper._

_'Who would sacrifice everything they'd worked for just for their dumb sibling?'_

Mabel smiled. _Dipper would._

There was no giant rift between them, or there kinda was, but at least it wasn't like what happened with their Grunkles, and they would all find a way to fix whatever this was. She was determined.

He wiggled is fingers and cocked his head impatiently, “Seriously Mabel? I mean, if you really want to take a nap in the _bathroom_ knock yourself out. It wouldn't be the weirdest place you've fallen asleep... but at least _say_ something.”

She grinned excitedly and took his hand, pulling herself up with as much gusto as she could manage. He barked out a small, startled laugh, almost falling flat on his face as she danced around to stand behind him. Luckily he managed to catch both his balance and his towel at the last second.

Shaking his head, he turned toward her and rolled his eyes, “I just gotta get dressed, then I'll be ready.”

She shoved him forward, marching him along toward his bedroom, “Well hurry it up Dip Dop! Time is money, and you know how Grunkle Stan feels about money!”

He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah.”

When she was sufficiently satisfied he would make it on his own, she slowed, turning on her heel with a bright grin on her face as she headed back to her own room. With each additional step her grin slowly morphed into a full-fledged smile.

Because he'd given her that _look._

He'd understood.

He knew what her sweater represented too.

* * *

 

 

They'd been on the road for a few hours now, and Mabel had crashed hard about thirty minutes after they'd boarded. The two of them were sitting in the back of the bus, and she had her face pressed up against the window with her mouth slightly open, warm breath fogging up the glass in an ebb and flow pattern. He'd thought it was funny at first, and had even stolen her camera to snap a picture, knowing that she'd appreciate it later.

Now she was drooling slightly, ignoring his admittedly halfhearted efforts to wake her. If he had to guess, he'd say she'd hyped up on too much Mabel juice, too early in the morning. Now the sugar buzz had pushed her up and over the consciousness threshold, which meant she'd be out like a light for at least a few more hours of their very lengthy trip.

Dipper sighed when he looked down at his phone and realized the battery was already dead. They hadn't even made it half way yet.

It was his own fault, really. He'd forgotten his external battery, and none of the ports available on the bust actually worked—not that that was much of a shock—not to mention he'd been fiddling with the damn thing since they boarded.

He was desperate to have something to distract himself with... but that would have been too much to ask, he supposed. Writing in his journal was out—his heart wasn't in it, and the amount of effort it would take to get motivated sent a little pang of anxiety though him.  It felt too much like work, really.

Writing in the journal probably wouldn't even help.  Concentrating hadn't been his strong suit recently, and he knew he'd never be able to focus.  He just didn't want to be alone with his thoughts right now.

The teenager pulled his feet up and laid them across the seats between he and his sister—being in the back seat had its perks—and leaned back against the opposite window so that he could glance out the back.

It was the middle of the week, the weather had been crummy, and this particular highway was all but abandoned. That also meant they practically had the bus to themselves for the time being. The only other passengers had gotten off at the last depot, and the stops that remained were spaced pretty sparsely all the way up to sleepy little Gravity Falls.

He gave a small sigh of relief... he knew hadn't been doing well around other people. He'd been so on edge, so irrationally angry, and gotten so little sleep, that he kept thinking he recognized people. Not like, friends or family recognized. Not like _'Hey I know that guy from school'_ recognized either _..._

More like, _'What the hell, didn't I see this guy standing at the end of my block yesterday? Isn't he the same guy who stood behind me in the line at the grocery store the other day? Wait, wasn't he also a few seats down at the movie theater across town? Oh God, now he's following me down the street_.' recognize.

But every time he'd try and look into it or do a double take, they would either vanish, or he'd realize that no, it couldn't have been the same person. He was being ridiculous. Nobody was following him. There was no legitimate reason for anyone to want to follow weird little Mason Pines.

Reminding himself of that fact didn't stop the nagging voice in the back of his head that claimed he was wrong. It didn't stop the faint whispers that he thought he heard right next to his ear, late at night when things were just way too quiet to be natural. It didn't stop the disjointed, terrifying, nonsense nightmares that consumed every minute of slumber he gave in to, leaving him exhausted and afraid to close his eyes. The times he did fall asleep, he tossed and turned so much he'd end up on the floor with a new scratch or bruise for his troubles.

Yet...

He could have sworn he saw something hovering behind him, reflected in the glass of his bedroom window the other night. Something decidedly non-human. It had glowing red eyes and yellow teeth and black, crumbling skin.

Only, when he finally gathered up the courage to really look, there was nothing there. Returning his gaze to the window left him staring at nothing but his own reflection.

“That's because you're just seeing things.” He whispered to himself, glaring out at the quickly passing scenery. He rolled his shoulders and huddled in closer to himself. It was chilly in the bus, though he really didn't think asking the bus driver to turn up the heat would matter. Besides, Mabel didn't really seem too cold, and Waddles didn't seem bothered either. He was curled up peacefully on the floor in front of his sister, snoozing away.

The overly affectionate pig seemed to be avoiding Dipper lately, for whatever reason. Usually he liked being scratched or pet, but lately he'd immediately back away if there was any attempt, snorting and squealing discontentedly.

It was yet another thing Dipper just chalked up as something wrong with himself. Seeing things, hearing things, insomnia... he assumed Waddles could probably just sense his mood or feelings and really didn't like the vibe he was giving off. Animal were like that. Animals who were from Gravity Falls, even more so.

Really, Dipper could relate. He didn't like the vibe he was giving off lately either.

A sudden stench struck his nostrils and he groaned, lifting up one arm to sniff himself. He couldn't tell exactly where it was coming from, but it had been happening a lot lately regardless of how often he showered, or how hard he scrubbed.

(Too hard. His skin was pink and raw and painful, but God he hated how grimy he felt whenever he'd catch a whiff.)

He'd tried looking it up online, and his best guess was that he was having some kind of reaction to the new laundry soap his mom was using... like the oils in his puberty infected skin didn't mesh with some ingredient or another in the detergent or whatever.

He'd asked Mabel if she noticed it once, and upon what she called her _'patented sniff inspection'_ she claimed that yes, he did smell pretty bad... but it was probably just gross sweaty boy B.O., and had shoved him off to the shower.

She'd been grossed out, but not overly so. He didn't understand how she could stand to be in the same room as him... frankly, he felt the smell was overwhelming. It threatened to make him gag. It was like _rot_ and _smoke_ and _sulfur_.

_It burned in his sinus cavity and made him nauseous, drudging up images of a blood red sky, literally torn apart at the seams and spitting out nightmarish hell monsters that hunted them down like the prey they were. Everywhere he turned sat evidence of societal decay: crumbling buildings covered in muck and ash and blood, devoid of any normal life. An inverted waterfall flowing into a dark, empty chasm above his head, while a living, breathing water tower trampled through the forest below on long wooden legs, sharp teeth gnashing at every sound..._

He brought his hands up to cradle the sides of his head, curling even further into the vinyl seat and closing his eyes, “No... no no no. Stop it.”

The wheels of the buss ground slightly against the paved, but uneven road below them, and he dedicated every ounce of energy he had to focusing on that repetitive, rumbling sound.

* * *

 

Dipper didn't know how long he zoned out like that, but when he reopened his eyes he realized it had already started getting dark outside. That wasn't entirely surprising, considering they weren't supposed to actually arrive in Gravity Falls until pretty late at night, and the sun went down fairly early this time of year... but something about it still unnerved him. The dim inner lights of the bus were casting eerie shadows across the floor and seats, and he had to shake of a weird, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Stealing a glance toward his sister, who was still sleeping like the dead, he concluded that he must have dozed off for a bit and was still suffering from the drowsiness. He hadn't remembered dreaming, but maybe something in his brain had bubbled to the surface that he couldn't recall, and that's why he was sweating despite the biting cold, and had his heart rate so ridiculously elevated.

He shivered slightly, eyes circling around to glance back out the rear window. He hadn't seen a mile marker in a while, but if he had to feign a guess he would say they were probably still in California. Soos and Wendy had said they'd had some pretty heavy snow fall up there, and he hadn't seen any on the ground yet... though it did look like it was beginning to flurry outside.

He yawned, and rubbed his eyes... man, he was completely drained. Even his muscles felt sore and exhausted. He couldn't wait to get to the Shack, and relax by a nice, cozy fire...

They were apparently going to beat Stan and Ford there by a few hours, as the old men had run into some rough waters somewhere and were delayed by a few days. Soos had agreed to meet the younger twins at the bus stop instead.

He knew Soos and his abuelita had moved out, leaving the house portion of the Mystery Shack to the Pines once again. The once handyman turned host had said that it was a combination of reasons: his grandmother complained of cold drafts, and Melody had decided to come up and live there once Soos had proposed... and as much as he loved the Mystery Shack, and knew his new fiance would never fuss, he had a feeling she'd like working there _far_ more than living there.

' _Plus'_ Soos said cheerfully over the phone several months back, _'The Shack already has people living in it. Both Mr. Pines's and you two. That's your home, dude... even if you aren't there all the time.'_

That one, simple statement, and the decisive, unquestionable way Soos had spoken had done something so profound. Something inside Dipper had slotted into place right then and there. Up until that point he'd felt so... so... _lost._ Going 'home' to Piedmont after each trip only frustrated him on a level he just couldn't grasp. Wanderlust would fill his bones, and he'd slowly feel more and more... trapped.

He'd been lashing out. His parents didn't understand why. They blamed everything from bullies to puberty to depression, but never once sat down and actually tried to _really_ figure it all out.

Yes. Something messed up was going on with him. He knew that. They knew that. He was just as upset about it as they were, because even he didn't know what was causing his brain to go stupid.

Was it depression of some kind? Maybe. He had no idea. All he knew was that his mood flip flopped more than Stan flipped his Stancakes while cooking. He was uncomfortable in his own skin, and the paranoia was eating away insatiably at his thoughts.

It's not like he could talk to them about it.   Hell, Mabel had tried once, and only once, to ease them into the more benign happening of their first summer while they all ate dinner one evening.

And they had _laughed_.

They had laughed at _her_.

They had chalked it up to a hyperactive imagination, and happily suggested signing her up for writing classes, figuring she'd make a pretty good fantasy author one day if she ever refined the skill.

He and Mabel loved their parents. They were nice, and caring, and only wanted what was best for them, even if they made some questionable choices sometimes—who sends their kids up to stay with an estranged uncle they barely knew for an entire summer?

Still, they loved Dipper and Mabel, and he _knew_ that.

But that night had created a tear between the twins and their parents. A small, jagged rift that had slowly eroded away over the past couple years into the chasm it was now.

Dipper knew what their reaction—their ignorance—had done to his sister. A small piece of her heart had broken that night.  She'd questioned herself... and for a brief moment, she had been so unsure of what might have _really_ happened.  Seeing that had made him so angry...

And now that he thought about it, that was probably the first time he'd really acted out violently.

He'd spent about an hour consoling her, his mood souring more and more each minute until he just couldn't handle it anymore. After everything they'd been through... everything they'd _seen_... how _dare_ they dismiss his sister like that?

He'd broken some things and shouted furious nonsense, and his parents had stared at him all dumbfound, then grounded him for it. They'd immediately phoned Stan and asked _what in heaven's name had gotten into their son_. What the _hell_ had their uncle been teaching them.

Mabel had been shocked to say the least, and did everything in her power to calm him down. Stan eventually smoothed everything out, somehow or another, and despite his antics, they'd been allowed to return the following summer.

You'd think that after the horror that was Weirdmagedon, he'd never want to go back... and that would be the sensible thing, wouldn't it? After surviving so much chaos, he should relish a normal, teenage life in California.

Yet somehow, everything just felt better when he was in Gravity Falls... and he didn't think it was because of the Theory of Weirdness Magnetism, either. It was just another thing he'd never be able to share with his mom and dad... another thing he didn't understand.

When he was in Gravity Falls, the anger and frustration melted away and hid deep down inside.  It was still there, but it was manageable.  A breeze, instead of a hurricane. Relief bled through him. He had real, tangible friends there. People there _knew_ him. They _understood_ him even when he didn't understand himself.

He could run his mouth excitedly about mysteries and theories and findings, and people would listen. They'd mutter _'never mind all that'_   but they'd still raise an eyebrow and smile knowingly as they all ignored the small, bearded man rummaged unabashed through the trashcan behind them.

He could run around the woods with the Multi-bear, or hike up to the massive tree house they'd all built one summer-even the Gnomes had pitched in with that one-and bury himself in his journal without the fear of being disturbed or hassled.

He could be bitter and incomprehensible as he shouted himself raw at the stupid indestructible Bill statue they'd found in a clearing in the woods, and no one would bat an eye... In fact, they'd join him, more often than not.

Returning to Piedmont was always _suffocating_. Being barred from going back last summer because of his own unquestionably dumb mistake had only served to make things fester even further.

So when Soos had referred to the Shack as home... _Dipper's_ home...

It felt right. It was like finding a missing puzzle piece under the bed, and eagerly slamming it into place to finally reveal the finished picture.

And that picture looked like the Mystery Shack. It looked like an uneven dirt road, twisting through impossibly tall trees. It looked like an old, beaten in, but well loved red car with a white top and custom plate. It looked like a small, backwater lumber town that wasn't found on any maps, surrounded by unnaturally shaped cliffs.

He was still planning on going to college, of course. He'd major in science and cinematography and maybe one day film that Ghost Catchers show he always wanted to do. And that time away would be ok, because Soos had made him realize that after all that, he knew where he wanted to plant his roots.

He'd always love his parents... but his family had grown, and the meaning of the word ' _home_ ' had changed.

He smiled warmly, and sat quietly with his thoughts for several long minutes before Waddles let out a sudden, sharp squeal from his place by Mabel's feet.

His gaze snapped down to the pig, just as he felt his sister shift, drawing her hand's up to rub the sleep from her eyes. She blinked in confusion, voice heavy, “Wha... what's a'matter Waddles?”

The small, plump pig let out another sound of distress, and backed himself into a corner between the seats and wall, scrapping his hooves against the floor in a vain attempt to get further away.

“Uhhh... hey, what's going on?” Dipper leaned forward worriedly, only stopping when he realized this only seemed to cause Waddles to panic further. He pulled both hand's up in an attempt to placate the animal, “Uh, ok, I'm staying over here. Won't move an inch, I swear.”

“What the heck has gotten into him?” Mabel asked, eyes wide. She reached out to gently rub the pig's head.

He didn't pull away from her. In fact, he snuffed her sleeve and mouthed the fabric, almost like he was trying to draw her closer.

“Whoa...” Mabel frowned, sending a bewildered look toward her brother, “What did you do?”

“Nothing?” Dipper shrugged nervously, reaching back to scratch the back of his neck, “I was looking out the window when he started freaking out.”

She looked confused, but nodded anyway. A few seconds of silence passed between them before she was pulled off balance by a particularly strong tug on her sweater, “OW, come on now!”

Dipper stole a quick glance around the bus, wondering if something else could have startled Waddles, but other than it growing even darker outside, nothing had changed. No one had boarded, the motor still puttered along like normal, and the bus driver continued to hum along to the radio obliviously.

His eyes returned to his sister, and a chill wrapped itself around his spine. He froze.

She was leaning over, completely distracted by her pig. The window she'd been leaning against revealed that the snow outside had picked up considerably... blanking out anything he might have seen with a sheet of gray and white.

His own reflection was absent from the glass, replaced by something else entirely. It moved when he moved, dark and hazy, it's outline faint and undefined.  
And it stared back at him with two, impossibly red eyes.

He tried to shout out to his sister... but something happened. Static replaced the sound of the radio, and there was an ear splitting screech as the bus pitched sideways, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, there's chapter two.
> 
> Sorry about the cliff hanger. I'll try to get chapter 3 up post haste. If you notice any editing errors, feel free to point them out. Uploading caused a whole mess of things to happen, and I tried to pick through and find what I could. 
> 
> Eventually I may start posting art with some of these chapters. Still contemplating it. Lemme know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up for this chapter: brief mentions of blood and gore.
> 
> Also, Stan uses some harsh language near the end. Because he's both frustrated, and Stan.

Chapter 3

* * *

In which something awful happens to an undeserving man.

* * *

 

 

“No!” Dipper tumbled forward, eyes snapping open so quickly that it threatened to make him dizzy. The harsh light that bombarded him was unexpected, and it forced him to drag a weary hand across his face in an attempt to hold back tears.

A groan escaped his lips as he slowly shifted, trying to figure out why all of his limbs felt like stone. He panicked momentarily when he realized he couldn't quite move his legs—they were bound tightly together and his left knee throbbed painfully. He hastily retracted his hand and blinked his eyes, casting a frantic glance at his surroundings...

He was in his room.

Specifically, he was sprawled across the grainy, hard wood floor of his room, his left leg twisted awkwardly against his bed, sheets haphazardly wrapped around his lower body... which explained both the pain, and why he couldn't really move.

A glaring beam of sunlight was filtering through his blinds, focusing in a perfect strip right across his eyes. With a bit of effort he managed to roll his shoulder and turn away, curling in on himself in a lazy, somewhat unsuccessful attempt to untangle from the sheets. The movement brought another series of pulsing aches to his attention—the base of his skull and up near his right temple both protested angrily, and his lip had almost certainly split itself open again. Turning his head confirmed his suspicions, as a few stray drops of blood decorated the floor. He swiped the spots with his palm, wiping it relatively clean.

“Ugh… jeeze… His head hurt, and he couldn't quite form a coherent thought past escaping from his traitorous bed spread, “Stupid... dumb sheets.”

He must have had another nightmare... right? That would explain the way his heart was drumming up such an intense solo against his rib cage, and the thorough exhaustion that weaved it's way all through his muscles, all the way down to his bones.

Finally freeing his legs, he gingerly shifted to a seated position, bare back against the cool metal frame of his bed. He took stock of himself, noticing with some amount of annoyance that his braced hand was throbbing slightly. His other arm felt sore in it's socket, and he figured he must of landed on his shoulder pretty hard. An impressive bruise felt like it was coming in, and he poked at it a little longer than he probably should have while he tried to gather his wits. A distracting, coppery taste met his tongue, and he involuntarily gave a snotty sniff in response. Wiping the back of his hand across his face revealed that yes, his lip was still bleeding, as a streak of bright red painted his knuckles.

He stared dumbly for a few seconds at his hand... and suddenly he was heaving—heavy, thick gulps of air filled his lungs as his scrambled brain screamed at him; _'This is wrong!'_ Everything was just... wrong! Why was he here!? He wasn't supposed to be here! He should have been with...

Where was Mabel?

_Flashes of a dark, humanoid silhouette framed in an old, tinted window. The backdrop: a cold, blanket of flurrying snow, frost creeping across the glass—a deafening screech, like nails on a chalkboard—glowing red eyes—the same red color as his blood—it was hovering predatory over—_

“Mabel!” He sprang forward, knees scraping the floor as he scrambled to his feet. It only took three long strides to reach his door and fling it open, stumbling against the frame and leaving behind a few, red fingerprints against the white wood. With a shake of his head he decided he'd clean them up later and continued onward, somewhat drunkenly down the empty hall toward his sister's room.

The house was entirely too quiet. Normally he could hear one of his parents busying themselves about downstairs, or faintly make out the ambient sounds of passing cars, birds and people outside... but now the only noises were the ones he was causing: stamping footfalls, frenzied panting, and the loud, racing thump of his heart.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Mabel's brightly painted, scratch-and-sniff sticker covered door wasn't open.

That was _wrong_. Her door was _never_ shut. She didn't even change clothes in her bedroom, choosing to do so in the bathroom instead. Her door was always at least cracked—welcoming to everyone at any time, unless she was trying to comfort him without her parents eavesdropping.

He didn't bother hesitating. His uninjured hand battered against the door, “Mabel?”

There was no sound from inside. No shuffling. No bubbly giggle. Nothing at all. Just a sense of foreboding emptiness that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

It was _unnatural._

Mabel was loud. Excitement was just part of her very being. If she wasn't being overzealous and boisterous, something was wrong.

 _Wrong_. It was the only word he could come up with to describe what he was feeling. The way the familiar walls loomed over him, casting shadows despite the light from the windows. The way his stomach churned, bile threatening to worm it’s way up his esophagus. The way his chest hurt, his heart and mind on alert for threats that weren’t there. He didn’t belong here… he couldn’t place why he felt that way. He just knew that it was _wrong_.

His muscles almost seized up on him as his rational side tried to argue that things were fine... they had to be fine. He was at home, in Piedmont for crying out loud! There had never once been anything remotely dangerous in his house, there was no reason to feel this way. Mabel was fine. She probably just went to the convenience store down the block for a soda or candy bar.

The irrational part of him just kept hissing that same word, over and over, ‘ _Wrong, wrong wrong_!’

Several imaginative scenarios filtered through his mind. Each new theory was worse than the last, yet he couldn't bring himself to picture what did happen. He knew that he knew. He felt the memories, buried deep inside the twisted roots of a tree—but every time he tried to dig, every time he tried to follow those roots to the source, things only seemed to darken at the edges further. The only persistent image was of those terrifying, red eyes.

Frustration and desperation influenced his every movement. It didn't matter. He had to see her. He had to know that she was ok. Then, when he was sure, she could calm him down. Reason with him. Call him a paranoid dumb-dumb. Anything.

“Mabel, I'm coming in!” He nearly shouted, wrapping his fingers around the cold doorknob and giving it a twist and push.

Only to discover that it was locked.

“ _What_!?” Even he could hear how his own voice practically dripped with disbelief. Mabel didn't even believe in locks. She had never shut out anyone, let alone _him_ , “God... Mabel, are you even in there?”

It took all of about three seconds for him to consider breaking down the door. Oh, he knew that it was a very bad idea—his parents would kill him—but nothing was making sense to him right now, and logic had flown the coup. Fear had him in its jaws, and wouldn't let go. He had to get in there.

He'd probably be able to manage it pretty easily too. He'd broken down the door to the Mystery Shack after Weirdmagedon, after all—even if it was admittedly pretty dilapidated at the time—and despite the fact that he was still sort of wiry, he was a lot bigger now than he was when he was twelve.

He took three steps back and squared his shoulders—

An icy hand placed itself on his arm, “Dipper?”

Undignified was absolutely a word that could have described the startled yelp he would _never_ admit to making just then. He whipped around so quickly that he wouldn't doubt he'd given himself whiplash.

And there stood Mabel, eyes blinking questionably up at him, hand still hovering outstretched in his direction, “Are you ok?”

“ _Where were you_!” He demanded, drawing one hand up against his chest—his heart still felt like it wanted to escape, and his head felt as if someone was taking a jackhammer to his skull. His other hand gripped her shoulder tightly, “Why... why didn't you answer?”

She cocked her head ever so slightly, expression unusually unreadable, “I was downstairs. I must not have heard you.”

He let a sigh of relief hiss through clenched teeth, even though he couldn't really believe there was anywhere in the house that could have possibly kept her from hearing him, “I thought—I don't know—I don't know what I thought...”

“What's wrong, Dipper?” She'd finally dropped her hand, placing it on her hip instead. Her eyes still stared up at him however, unnerving in the way that they seemed to look through him, “Were you trying to go into my room?”

“Eh... heh... yeah. I...” He rubbed absentmindedly at the back of his neck, a light blush heating his cheeks, “I think I had a nightmare. I was just... I was worried about you, I guess.”

She considered him for a few seconds longer before essentially shoving her way past him, “I'm fine. I think you should go lay back down, Dipper. You probably just hit your head or something.”

“Mabel?”

“I'm really tired. I think I'm going to take a nap now.” She pushed her door open and entered, only turning to face him again once she was completely through the darkened threshold, “I'll talk to you later, ok?”

“Oh... uh, ok...” He scrunched his brows, taking a few steps backward as he avoided her gaze. Again, the sense of _wrongness_ bubbled up inside him, “Sorry. I didn't mean to bother you.”

“You didn't.” Mabel looked blankly back at him through the thin gap between her door and its frame as she pushed it closed, “Goodnight.” And with a soft click, he was once again left alone in the hall, anxious and confused.

The silence returned. An icy draft made its way up his spine and he shivered... abruptly realizing that he was clothed in nothing but his boxers and arm brace.

Embarrassment swept over him, and he retreated back into his own room. He leaned against the door to close it, easing down against the wood until he was nestled against the floor. Something like shame bubbled up from the pit of his stomach, and he let out a long, drawn out sigh.

“What... what the hell was that?” He muttered to himself, lowering his head to bury it behind his arms and knees. He began dragging one hand roughly through his hair, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

 _'What isn't wrong with you, PineTree_?'

Oh, no no no.

Dipper’s eyes widened. This was... new.

This was... no. He was not going to start hallucinating Bill's voice now. That was too much. Too goddamn much. He’d ignore it, and refuse to engage his stupid, stupid brain.

_'Ha. Like you could ever ignore me! But hey, go ahead and try if you want. You do you, kid. You do you.'_

“Stop.” Dipper grunted, gripping his curly brown hair tightly in both hands and giving it a tug, “I won't listen to this. I won't do this. This isn't happening.”

_'You should really get your head checked, kid. You sound pretty crazy, talking to yourself like that. Must run in the family! I mean, your uncle did it an awful lot to back in the day! But... hey, who am I to judge?'_

Dipper couldn't stop the increasingly pathetic whine that escaped him as he wrapped his arms around his head further. He bit his lower lip to focus on the pain, doing whatever it took to ignore the freaky, nerve wracking silence that surrounded him, while simultaneously begging the high pitched, inner monologue to just stop.

_'That won't work.'_

“I just... I just need to calm down.” His body was shaking now, goose bumps rising across his skin. He could have sworn he'd just huffed out a frosty breath as well. Why was it so damn cold in his house?

 _'Hey. You're not lookin' so hot right now. You seem a little_ drained _, if I do say so myself.'_

And suddenly, against all odds, Dipper was growing drowsy again. His mind was fraying at the edges despite the innate, deep seated wrongness of everything happening around him. He found it difficult to focus. Difficult to think. He was going to fall asleep huddled in a pitiful lump against his door... and for some reason he just couldn't find the energy to care.

It was just in that moment—the few seconds between being overly aware of his surroundings and unconsciousness—that he thought he heard a strange, mechanical knocking and whirring all around him. It sort of reminded him of one of those old fashioned computer modem things his parents used to have... the kind that had to connect through a phone line. Some of McGuckit and Ford's machines kind of sounded like that sometimes too...

Eh, it didn't matter. He was tired. He needed to sleep. He needed to sleep right now.

_'Hey, PineTree!'_

“No...” Dipper hummed groggily, shaking his head before slumping further, “I'm done, Bill. G'night.”

_'This is important! I swear. Just think for a sec...'_

“Don't care. Go'way.”

_'She never unlocked her door.'_

 

* * *

 

The first thought that bubbled up from the blissful, quiet darkness in Mabel's brain was that it was so, freaking, _cold._

The second thought was that she was soaked... like she'd gone for an impromptu swim in a lake, sweater and all.

The third... the third was the memory of a thick, rotten stench and the terrified squeal of her beloved pig. Those were quickly followed by a jumbled mess of screeching tires, a gurgled cough, and the shattering of glass as the world turned upside down.

Then she got a whiff of acrid smoke, and any grogginess she may have still felt vanished.

Mabel's eyes shot open in an instant, and at first everything spun. A soft, blowing blanket of white swept up above her, and vertigo set in, leaving her momentarily paralyzed. It was unforgivably dark, and she appeared to be half buried—a heavy weight was curled up on top of her, blowing warm, wet, panting breaths in her face.

“Waddles!” Her voice came out hoarse, rubbing against her throat like sandpaper.

The pig slowly responded, letting out a quiet whine as it shuffled slightly more toward her face. A few sloppy licks met her chin, and Mabel found herself trying to reach up and around in an attempt to pet the pig, “H...hey... what... what happened?”

A snort was her only response, and she nodded understandingly. Waddles was obviously just as confused and scared as she was...

It was then that she realized that she was laying unceremoniously in a large snow bank, damn near spread eagle. Her skin was frozen, fingers and toes numb beyond belief, and her clothes were saturated to the point of being uncomfortably heavy. Waddles had pinned her down, pressing his weight against her chest and belly...

“What... What happened? Are... are you t-trying to keep me w-warm?” Mabel questioned, forcing the words out despite the way her body had started shivering, “G-Good Pig.”

Waddles shuffled off her with a little prompting, though he instantly tucked his snout between her neck and shoulder before she could stop him, “I-I gotta get up, Waddles...”

She attempted to roll to her side, but a sharp, angry pain blossomed across her back in protest. It caused her to suck in an uncontrolled, breath... but the crisp, cold air only served to aggravate her throat further than it already was. Before she could stop herself, she was hacking out a series of scratchy coughs and gasps.

A few seconds passed before she was finally able to regain control, swallowing the coughs away and focusing her attention on the pain. She needed to concentrate; needed to think. If Weirdmagedon had taught her anything, it was how to stay calm, gain her bearings and asses her injuries.

“Ok... ” She whispered to both herself and Waddles, “Just... ow.”

It was a too cold to tell just how bad off she was, but she tried anyway. Her back was throbbing something fierce, but at least nothing there felt broken. It flared up if she moved, but it didn't actually prevent her from doing so.

She wished she could say the same about her right arm. It was all stabby and tingly, starting at the elbow and radiating outward in both directions. She couldn't really move her fingers, but the shoulder turned in its socket, so at least that was something.

Her head ached, and occasionally her vision swam, so if she had to guess, she'd say she had a concussion. It couldn't have been too bad, though, if she had woken up on her own... especially considering the circumstances.

Wait, what were those circumstances again?

And suddenly, everything came back to her. The hazy darkness that had been lingering evaporated from her mind, and the memory of how she'd gotten in this particular predicament steamrolled through her thoughts like a rampaging Gobblewonker.

“Dipper!?” Her shout was swallowed by the vast nothingness around her, and she found herself shoving to her feet despite the many, many protests her freezing, achy body presented her.

She rubbed the tears from her eyes and spun around, taking in her surroundings. Everything was covered in several inches—maybe a foot—of pure, white snow. There weren't any nearby trees, no road, just an open, rolling set of hills.

A fair distance away sat an overturned bus, a long trench dug out beneath it... almost like it had been thrown. It had a few inches of snow already blanketing it, and the front end looked all but crushed.

“Oh man...” She spared a quick glance down at her pig, “What if he’s still in there?!”

It was dark and cold and everything in her brain screamed at her that this was an extremely dangerous situation—something had caused this, after all—and the best thing to do was turn around and run the other direction.

But she couldn't. Not if there was a chance her brother was still in there or around it somewhere.

“Dipper?” She yelled again, wincing as she stumbled forward, her increasingly numb feet making things more difficult with each step. “Oh man, ow, ow…”

After what seemed like forever she found herself gripping and clawing at the underside of the vehicle, only to curse loudly when she realized she just didn't have the strength to climb at the moment... how was she going to get inside the door?

In only took a split second for her to realize she was being incredibly dumb, and she rushed around toward the back of the bus. The large window was shattered, and she shoved her way past what little glass was left without sparing it a second glance. It caught on her sweater, and she felt a sharp pain open up on her cheek, but nothing mattered more to her in that moment than finding Dipper.

“Bro bro?” She huffed through chattering teeth. The inside of the bus reeked strongly… almost like a mix of dying campfire and sewage.

She paused only briefly at each sideways row of seats, her equilibrium slightly off due to the cold still nipping at her brain, and the unnatural orientation of the bus. It wasn’t until she was halfway through that something bright and familiar caught her eye.

Their backpacks. Both of them were thrown chaotically, but were still intact and sealed. She scooped them up with the arm that still seemed to function like normal, and continued her search, “Come on, Dip Dop! Answer me!”

She was nearing the front of the bus when her eyes suddenly spied the prone from of a body, still buckled in and slumped against the steering wheel. It was too big to be her brother, which only left one other person...

“Mr. Bus driver!” She rushed forward, wincing as her damaged arm banged up against his seat in her clumsy attempt to reach him.

She reached her good arm up around his chest and froze... his whole front was wet, and sticky, and when she pulled away her sweater was covered in dark, red blood. She looked down to see an alarmingly large puddle had also formed beneath her feet.

“Oh my God!” She gasped, almost gagging at the sight, “No no no no... Don’t be dead, please don't be dead...”

Surviving the apocalypse in 2012 had certainly steeled her resolve. She’d seen some pretty horrible things, witnessed death. She’d seen senseless violence and needless destruction. She’d lived through things that still didn't make any sense… and she’d come out a much stronger, less naïve person in the end.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t still shaken. She still hated the sight of blood, and would do anything to make sure no one ever got hurt like that again… and now Dipper was missing, and the bus driver was hanging above her sideways, dripping monster movie amounts of blood, and was probably already dead.

Deep down, she knew she really didn't want to know... but if there was any chance he was still alive, she couldn't just run away. Swallowing back the bile that was gathering at the back of her mouth, she slowly reached forward and gently pulled the man back so that she could see his front.

There was no stopping it this time. She hurled.

His chest cavity had been ripped open, from collar to navel, leaving a gory mess of bone and flesh. The only thing that had kept her from noticing before was the way his seat belt held him. His mouth was slack, eyes wide open... and missing. Not even Bill and his cronies had done something so… guttural.

“Oh God.” She hastily backed away, turning on her heel and pulling herself forward with each seat she reached in an attempt to escape the literal deathtrap the bus had become as fast as possible.

A blast of cold air slammed into her as she practically dove back through the window, hands and knees scrambling through the snow to put as much space between her and the desecrated body as possible. Even when she managed to get back on her feet, even when she'd retraced her steps and found Waddles waiting nervously several meters away, she kept walking.

***  
Her mind was blank. She couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't even register how much time had passed before her legs finally gave out. Waddles was by her side instantly, licking her cheeks and snuffling her hair affectionately. If it wasn't for his insistent nagging, she probably wouldn't have been able to drag herself free of the blind panic that had gripped her.

“Y-you must be cold, huh?” She asked numbly, scratching him as best she could with stiff fingers, “I-I'm sorry...”

After a few more long moments of staring ahead in denial, she slowly shook her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts, “I... I have to get help. I have to... _where's Dipper_?” Tears welled up in her eyes, “H-he'd know what to do! B…But he wasn’t in the bus… and oh man, what if he’s buried in the snow somewhere? What if he's hurt, or unconscious or... or...”

Waddles continued his ministrations as she wiped the frozen snot from her nose, “Ok... Ok... What do I do...?” She paused, leaning her head back to stare up at sky. It had stopped snowing, at least, and the clouds were starting to clear away to reveal the darkly beautiful, star speckled expanses of blues and purples that only revealed themselves in the dead of night, “What do I do?”

She was still on her knees, staring blankly at the sky above her when her eye caught the sudden, bright streak of a shooting star. She started, transfixed for a moment before it snapped her from her daze. She shook her head in an attempt to clear it.

A breeze battered against her, and she dropped her gaze, eyes narrowing on the darkness ahead. Not too far ahead of her was a tree line, thick with pines and sequoia… “I… I have to warm up. We gotta get out of the wind, Waddles.”

Ford and Wendy had taught both her and Dipper in-depth survival tactics after Weirdmagedon. They’d explained the importance, and had repeated several times. _‘You never know what could happen.’_

Man, where they ever right.

“Let’s go…” She mumbled, ignoring the pain that flared when she heaved the backpacks further over her shoulder. Climbing to her feet, she led her pig toward the trees, “We'll figure out what to...to d..do, then we'll find D...Dipper.”

* * *

 

It was maybe a half hour later that she was settled into the nook like roots of a particularly large tree, warming herself and Waddles next to a small, but dependable fire. Both she and her brother carried basic supplies in their backpacks at all time, including but not limited to: Lighters, matches, a newspaper, band aids, water… just little necessities, really. She’d managed to find a few fallen branches that weren’t completely soaked, snapped off what she needed, and went to work.

It was still freezing, and she knew her soaked clothes and numb extremities were both going to be a problem sooner, rather than later… but it was a start. She had an extra sweater in her bag—her and Dipper’s suit cases must have still been in the luggage compartments under the bus, and she really was dreading the fact that she was going to have to go back and retrieve them at some point in the very near future.

She was about to swap sweaters when her fingers brushed something cold, flat and metallic. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she retrieved the object… Her phone! Of course! Why hadn’t she thought to look for that first? Desperate fingers swiped up on the screen, and after several failed attempts—her skin was just too cold for the sensors to register—it flashed to life.

A small cry escaped her lips and her eyes widened in disbelief when she spied the image that had been saved to the screen. It was her, face squished against the glass of the bus, drool dripping down her chin and nose a rosy red as she slept on unaware… Her brother was posed in selfie position in the corner, peace sign and all.

He must have taken it and saved it to her lock screen… tears welled up in her eyes and she hesitated a few extra seconds before swiping the image away. She only had a bit of battery left, so she had to make this count.

She didn’t know where she was. Didn’t know how much time had passed. Whatever had happened wasn’t in the realm of ‘relatively normal,’ as was evident by the state the bus driver had been left in. So the police would probably be next to useless.

There was also no signal, which meant she’d have to put some of McGucket's upgrades to use—she’d have to remember to give him the biggest hug next time she saw him.

* * *

 

 

Stan paced, eyes darting nervously up the road in the direction the bus should have arrived from a few hours ago.

It was supposed to have beaten him and Ford to Gravity Falls… but they’d arrived in the dead of night to a darkened shack devoid of any visitors. They’d called Soos, thinking maybe the kids had all gone to the late night diner for pancakes, only to discover that he was still at the bus stop. He was panicked, and had frantically explained that the bus had never shown, and even more worrisome, Melody had been on the phone all night and the bus company had claimed no such arrival was scheduled.

So here he was, standing out by the road at four in the goddamn morning, bundled up in the heavy, scratchy jacket his brother had insisted he wear, trudging a back and forth path through the snow. His boots had dug into mud long ago, and each step wore on his nerves with each slosh.

Ford, Soos and Wendy had gone back to the house to try and figure out what the hell was going on… but he’d insisted on staying behind just in case the kids showed up.

He stopped momentarily when he spied a flashlight heading his way. It was too dark outside to tell at first, but after several minutes he realized it was his brother. There was a deep seated, foreboding look on his face that told Stan all he needed to know—they hadn’t had any luck so far. Still, once he was close enough, he had to ask, “Anything?”

Ford shook his head grimly, “No. Fiddleford is on his way here to help me try and track their phones—he installed some pretty good signal boosters last time they were here—but depending on where they are, we might not be able to lock on to them unless their phones are both on, or one of them calls.”

“That sounds just about useless... What about their parents?”

“Can’t reach them. I'm assuming their still aboard their flight.”

“What the fuck happened, Stanford?” Stan growled, fists curled tight against his sides. It was freezing cold outside, but all he felt was angry heat. His instincts were raging—something was horribly wrong, and he had a gut feeling that it was something stupid and dangerous and weird. An eerily familiar sense of loss was settling over him… one he’d hoped he’d never have to feel again.

Ford knew Stan’s anger wasn’t directed at him, but it still gave him pause. Stan usually reserved using his full name when he was either trying to make a point, or very, _very_ upset about something.

It was hard to be reassuring, when he himself was at his wits end with worry as well, but he had to try. He slowly put a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed, “We will find them, Stan. If Fiddleford's trackers don't work, there's some spells I can piece together...” He frowned, “It'll be harder, without my research, but I'm confident that with a little help from some of our more supernatural friends, I'll be able to track down the components-”

“I don't care about trackers, or spells, or whatever the hell it is you need. All I care about is Dipper and Mabel.” Stan had shrugged off Ford's hand, and turned away, back toward the darkened road laid out before them. There was a beat where nothing was said between the two. Silence stretched out to suffocate the moment before Stan all but whispered, “I can't lose them like I lost you.”

Ford knew he wasn't meant to hear that, so instead of pointing it out he shifted forward, and stood beside his brother, “It... it might not be anything serious. A mistake in scheduling, perhaps. Someone new at the bus depot that doesn't know what they're talking about. Their phones could have died, preventing them from contacting us...”

“Do ya really believe any of that, Sixer?”

The way his brother had sighed out that statement had prompted Ford to glance over in concern.

Stan was hunched, more so than normal... and in the lack of bright light, each shadow cast across his face traced deeply along his wrinkles, highlighting them, aging him to an almost absurd degree. His nose was pinkish, and he was sniffling in the cold, breath puffing out in small cloudy mists. His sliver hair peaked out from his beanie—an expertly crafted, holy mackerel embroidered gift from Mabel—catching in the brief appearances of moonlight and looking downright _white._

And worst of all, Stanley looked so very tired. Life had not been kind to either of them—Ford could attest to his own trials and tribulations—but while his rather _unique_ experiences were a certain kind of hell... They hadn't worn on his body and mind like Stan's had.

It didn't show often, after all, Stan was usually energetic and rambunctious. He could still fight or dance with the best of them despite his complaints about aching joints and muddled memories. Not to mention their recent exploits had helped him regain some of that energy of his youth, and had even helped him trim down slightly.

But sometimes...

Sometimes there would be days were Ford would look at his brother, and he'd almost feel like crying. Stan had been chewed up and spit out more than once, but was still standing. Still carrying on. And even though he tried to hide his real emotions, Ford was slowly relearning that ability to read his brother without words... the one they used to share when they were kids. Admittedly, Stan had always been better at it, but that didn't matter.

Right now? Stan was washed out. He was worn, and exhausted. He was terrified.

He didn't need to be a twelve PHD genius to see that. Hell, he didn't even really need his eyes to see that... because he felt the exact same way.

Stan just had a harder time reigning it in when it came to Dipper and Mabel.

“Stanley...”

They were suddenly interrupted by a loud, obnoxiously upbeat ringtone that sounded from Ford's pocket. It had been chosen and programmed in by the caller herself.

In a rush, his six fingers fumbled the phone clumsily, as Stan stared at him, chastisingly snapping, “Answer it already, poindexter!”

“Hello!?” Ford hadn't even dragged the phone to his ear, instead placing it on speaker so that his brother could listen in without struggle, “Mabel, sweetie, is that you?”

They both stiffened at the quiet sniffle on the other line. Ford prompted again, “Mabel, can you hear me?”

A few more seconds passed before a weak, gravely answer filtered through the speaker, “G...Grunkle F...Ford?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter down. Promise we'll be getting to the meat of the story soon! Hope you enjoyed it.


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